


Folly

by theoreticallychaotic



Category: La Cage aux Folles - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticallychaotic/pseuds/theoreticallychaotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georges night with Sybil.</p>
<p>A one-shot glimpse of a moment that was inspired after listening to Philip Quast and Roger Allam's performances in LCAF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Folly

“Really Georges,” Sybil purred, “You’ve never…not with a woman…?”

Georges watched Sybil’s slender fingers with their perfectly polished tips stroke the stem of her glass. “No.” he answered frankly. “There’s only ever been Albin.”

“And you’ve never been curious?” She paused to take a sip from her glass. “Oh, darling.”

Georges said no more and only watched as Sybil, with her striking blonde bob, kohl-rimmed eyes and checkerboard dress sleeking her frame, dropped more fizz into his empty glass. And it was from there that Sybil accidentally fell into his strong chest and Georges not so accidentally fell into her narrow bed. God, she was beautiful – her physique just as slender as her dress had promised, pert breasts, tight rear, and a Welsh accent that charmed Georges while it left drawling vowels in its wake. He laid beside her for some time, lolling lazily on puffy yellow pillows as they exchanged slow kisses and his hands took a bolder exploration of every firm ridge and soft plane of her body. It occurred to Georges as he slid one of those pillows under her hips (something he’d learnt from Albin) and she planted a dainty foot on either of his shoulders that he should feel disgusted, repulsed, yet he did not. Curious, yes, even feeling as though a wedge of this particular puzzle was missing and that by the culmination of whatever would transpire would lead to him finding it and slotting it into that cavity (the one that would not be there if Albin was here instead). 

A delicate hand clawed around the jutting bone of his wrist as the low light echoed off Sybil’s bright red talons; “You don’t have to, Geor-”

Sybil’s voice rasped into a moan as Georges inquisitively skimmed a solitary fingertip along the crevice between her willowy legs. Georges’ felt his eyes widen at the sound he had coaxed from her and repeated his action; he pressed a little harder that second time, slipping into the syrupy heat, amazed at how she yielded to his toying. 

The clock showed it was nearly 1am when Georges glanced at it, two fingers lodged in a writhing Sybil. The pad of his thumb circled her sensitive apex. Her curt cry for more reeled his attention back.

“Dammit Georges, please!” she whined when he was not forthcoming with actions. 

For a moment Georges was taken aback that the throes of passion could lure her to produce a sound higher than he’d ever heard her sing – and Sybil could go up a lot! God, what else could he make her do? Could she really take more? Then again, he conceded, if she were to take his thick girth a third digit should be readily accepted. He eased in his ring finger to join his middle and index fingers. She keened greatly at that with her voice sliding to soprano or possibly even above that – she had often told Georges how she could cover most of the whistle register but he was pretty sure she had not meant in this particular circumstance. 

He couldn’t stop his voice sounding tentative nor keep his free hand from soothing her tight abdomen: “Am – Am I hurting you?”

Sybil continued to thrash though her head more wildly than the rest of her and Georges took that as an affirmation that he was doing anything but. In time, a heavy hand drifted from the scrunched bed-sheet to Georges’ rapidly flexing forearm; Sybil clutched him almost brutally in a gesture that violently flitted between trying to push him away and hold him in place. With her eyelids tight together, a blush high on her cheeks, stuttering gasps for air, it took a moment for Georges to register that look on her face. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” his voice was rough, just as if he’d been addressing Albin. 

Georges hesitated briefly; if it was Albin he had in this deliciously tortured state he’d have no reluctances in relieving him with a few quick strokes, or raking nails or teeth over – Oh. Sybil yanked at his hand that had been comfortingly stroking along her side and shoved it hard to her breast. She cried out – sweetly, Georges thought - and her body went rigid then; contracting intensely around his fingers; her heels dug hard into his shoulder, her nails bit into his sun-weathered flesh.

Sybil still looked hazy as Georges disentangled himself and once more reclined beside her. She giggled girlishly before reaching for his hand and touching a kiss to the tip of his fingers that were inside her moments ago. She let his hand drop and snuggled closer to him.

“Now, darling,” she hummed breathily into the column of his neck as he felt her hand snake over his stomach and coil around his cock, “What about you?”        

*******

           

 


End file.
